


Querencia

by novasophia



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23075773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novasophia/pseuds/novasophia
Summary: Just another day at work, yet when you get home you find your boyfriend bleeding over your favourite Moroccan rug.
Relationships: Barry Berkman/Original Female Character(s), Barry Berkman/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 36





	Querencia

You blinked twice, taken aback by the sight in front of you. The lights in your apartment were out, but you knew it was him. The lingering scent of his cologne mixed with what seemed to be sweat and blood met you as your eyes traced his outline, highlighted by the streetlamp outside.

“Barry… what the fuck?” you asked, unable to move or do anything more than stare at his figure heaped on the floor.

Stumbling over to the wall, you flicked on the lamp, wincing as your eyes adjusted to the light. Barry grunted at you as he shielded his eyes, adjusting himself so he was propped up against your sofa.

You crouched down, slowly shuffling closer to him. How on _earth_ had he found his way here, his shirt torn through the middle, covered in disarrayed spatters of blood? His hand trembled as he softly touched the tear in his shirt.

“Barry, oh shit! Oh shit, shit, shit!” you gasped, only now realising that the blood that stained him was coming from his chest. “I have to get you to a hospital,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. Panic crept through you and beads of sweat started to drip down your neck.

“No, Y/N, you can’t. Please, I can’t go,” he whispered, moaning slightly. His face was pale, and his tired eyes pleaded with you. He reached out to you, his hand clasping on to your bare knee. His hand was clammy against you, his fingertips rough as he gripped you slightly.

Inching closer, you peeled his shirt off, revealing a long scrape across his torso. Biting your lip in an attempt to keep quiet, you ripped his shirt in half, knowing he would be unable to get it over his head.

Barry’s eyes looked for you, and as you glanced at him he softened slightly. A sharp cough caught him off guard, and he groaned loudly as his stomach clenched. Wiping your stained hands on your skirt, you leapt up and ran straight for anything that might help clean and mend his wounds.

Your heart was pounding, and you were so afraid of what had happened to Barry that you weren’t entirely sure that you wanted him to indulge you. You were shaky as you made your way through your apartment, filling your favourite mixing bowl with water and disinfectant and grabbing the nearest towel before rummaging around to find your old sewing kit.

A loud groan and thumping sound came from the living room, and you darted back in to find Barry slumped on his side, hand cradling his stomach.

Your brows furrowed as you returned to your knees, water at your side. Gently you ran the damp cloth across his face, clearing him of the dirt and grime he was smattered in. Gulping, you ran your thumb along his chin as he turned to look at you. His nerves were radiating from him, and you leaned in closer to press a quick kiss to his lips, before diverting your full attention to his wound. He shuffled himself along, lying on the rug you’d bought back from Morocco, hands itching to touch you and feel you and remind him that he was still alive.

"y/n, I need to tell you –,” he started, but a quick look from you stopped him.

“Are you in trouble?” you asked as you began to rinse his chest with water. Goosebumps appeared on his skin, and his foot twitched, almost as if the sensation was making him ticklish.

“Depends who you ask,” he responded with a grimace, knowing that he had to tell you the truth even if it meant you might walk away.

“Don’t tell me now,” you whispered as you washed the blood away. It trickled down and across his chest, reminding you of the watercolours you did when you were a child. “Let me fix you up first.”

Barry reached for you, his calloused hand once again finding its place on your knee. His jaw was clenched, and he lay with his eyes closed as you washed the wound, his eyes creasing as the disinfectant stung him. Leaning in closer, you inspected the wound using your fingers to softly pry his skin apart, making sure there was no dirt left before you started to stitch the wound.

“Barry, I don’t have anything to sterilise this with,” you said, gesturing to the sewing needle that was neatly arranged in your sewing kit.

“Just wash it and put it over the gas until it’s red,” he replied, biting his lip as another bout of pain washed through him.

You headed back to the kitchen, following Barry’s instructions as you tried to keep yourself calm. ‘ _What is going on?’_ you thought. You knew about Barry’s past in the Marines, and you figured that there were some things that happened that he might never share, and you were fine with that. But this? This was wild, not something you’d ever expect. You stood over your stove, tweezers gripping the needle. You’d expected to come home from work and cook the both of you dinner – you’d bought a special bottle of red wine that was _way_ out of your budget, but you had every intention of asking Barry to move in with you tonight until you’d found him crumpled on your apartment floor. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath in and held it. You could hear Barry coughing, and your stomach flipped. You knew how much he loved you – knew it with every fibre of your being – but your hands trembled slightly as your mind raced through scenarios that would result in him here, on your floor, staining your rug.

The needle turned red and you flicked the gas off, carefully carrying it back to his side before threading the cotton through it. You’d stitched people up before – namely your brother whose endless cycle of stupid stunts had earnt you the title of ‘Honorary Nurse’ before you turned eight. Placing a hand on his stomach, you followed the steps you certainly knew well enough by now, breathing carefully and avoiding his eyes.

Sweat was dripping sweetly down your back and you could feel it pooling at your knees as you stitched up your lover, still completely in the dark about what had put him there. His hand was on your knee again, gripping tightly in order to cope with the constant pricking of his already sensitive skin. Barry breathed in sharply, thumb pressing into your skin, leaving a bruise.

After some time – seemingly _forever_ – you finished the stitching. You’d done a good job, all things considering, though you knew he’d have to get it dressed by a professional sooner rather than later. Letting out a sigh you weren’t aware you’d been holding in, you placed your hand over his, lacing his fingers with yours.

“I need to get a bandage for this,” you said, nodding at his chest. Barry glanced at you with soft eyes, squeezing your fingers quickly before you headed for the bathroom, certain you’d thrown a pack of bandages in the cupboard.

A shrill noise rang through your apartment, and you heard Barry groan and shuffle, before the noise stopped.

“Fuches.”

Bandages in one hand, you gingerly left the bathroom, nerves kicking through you. You could hear Barry, but his voice was so strained and severe that you couldn’t make out the words – except anger. You knew there was anger.

As you got closer, you could hear him clearly, and although you weren’t sure why, you felt oddly like you were disturbing him.

“No. No. Fuck off Fuches, I told you,” he retorted through the phone. “Do not bring her into this. I will fucking kill you.”

You watched from the doorway as Barry screamed in frustration, throwing his phone against the wall, shattering.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered, bringing his hands to his face.

“Barry, baby. I got the bandages,” you said, kneeling at his side once again.

His hands were still covering his face as you applied the bandages, his body tensing at the touch of your cold fingers.

“Can you move? We should get you off the floor… my rug,” you exclaimed, gesturing to the stains it had accumulated.

His hands fell from his face, a smile spread across his face as he began to laugh.

“You come home to find me bleeding on your floor,” Barry starts, taking a deep breath, “and overhear me telling someone I’ll kill them, and you’re worried about your rug?”

You smile at him, the softness in his voice, his hands tracing your arm.

“Something I can have some semblance of control over,” you replied with a smile. “Come on, help me move you to the bed.”

The two of you worked together to reach your bed, Barry leaning on you for support. You removed the rest of his clothes, washing him down some more to finally remove all the dirt and blood that stained his skin.

“Are you hungry?” you asked as your own stomach rumbled. Barry nodded in agreement, and you went into the kitchen to throw a frozen pizza and fries in the oven, before pouring yourself a glass of wine. You _absolutely_ needed it now. Returning to your bedroom, you climbed onto your bed, wine in hand.

“So, you wanna tell me about it? Who was on the phone?”

Barry turned to look at you, and you noticed him tearing up. Settling your wine on the bedside table, you curled yourself into him, taking his hands in yours.

“Barry, it’s okay. I love you. It’s okay.”

He took a deep breath. “I’ve done some pretty shitty things. _Really_ bad things. Things that you won’t love me for, after I tell you.”

Brushing his hair from his forehead, you leaned in to kiss him.

“I’m not an idiot, Barry. I heard you on the phone. I don’t know what you do, but I do know you turn up here smelling like blood and sweat… and something else. And I always ignore it. Because I love you.”

“I love you, y/n. And I don’t deserve you. Fuches… that guy on the phone. He’s like, my manager – or he was. He uh, well, he gets me jobs. Jobs like what I did in the Marines, kind of,” he explains, looking at you with trepidation.

You remain silent, waiting for him to finish.

“I kill people for money. Like, you know, a hitman. And well, Fuches just won’t leave me the fuck alone. I don’t want to do it. He makes me feel like it’s the only thing I’m good at. But, I’ve stopped, y/n, I don’t want to live like that. I never did.”

Barry felt the shift in your demeanour immediately, although he knew it was coming. Your hands went cold, and you pulled yourself away from him. Barry lay in silence, cursing himself. He knew he had to tell you the truth, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Your head was running wild. Barry, a killer? No way. He was so soft, and loving, and gentle with his caresses. He couldn’t possibly take a life?

He didn’t try to reach you, to touch you. He didn’t even talk. He knew he’d ruined it – you were the only good thing in his life, and he ruined everything he touched. You left him on your bed, thinking only about the pizza in the oven. Yanking the oven door open, you reached in for the pizza tray without thinking.

“Oh fuck!” you yelled, an angry red welt already appearing across your palm.

Rushing to the sink, you ran the tap and submersed your hand in the cool water. Your mind started to slow, your thoughts clearing as you relaxed and enjoyed the water trickling over your hands and forearms. Your eyes focussed on a photo, smiling fondly at the memory. It was at one of Barry’s acting classes, his first big performance with Sally. You were so proud of him, so in love with him that night. The photo was the first you two took together, and Sally had snapped it proudly, exclaiming to the whole class that she was sure you two would be married one day soon. In the photo Barry was smiling, his big, beautiful infectious smile. His eyes were crinkled, and they glistened – he had been laughing at Sally’s declaration, and his hand on your waist had gripped you closer. You were gazing up at Barry, a similar smile on your face. Tears threatened your eyes as you let your heart swell at that feeling – that almost _impossible_ feeling of being so hopelessly in love with someone that you would quite literally follow them to hell and back, to the ends of the earth, to battle all their demons no matter how terrifying. Flicking off the tap, you took a deep breath before returning to your bedroom.

Barry had shuffled himself up, so his back was resting against the wall. His eyes searched for yours as soon as you returned, and you marched up to the bed before clambering on, as close as you could get to him without hurting his wound.

“I don’t like it. Okay, I don’t like it. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say.”

His face fell, even though he’d expected this response. He opened his mouth to speak, before you started again.

“I’m not finished. I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it. But I love you. I love you, I love you, and I will say it until I run out of breath. I’m not going to run away from this, from you,” you said as you gripped his hands, talking rapidly.

He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words. How he’d ever been so blessed to have you he did not know. Gently you leaned in to kiss him, savouring him and letting your fingers caress his face.

“I love you,” he murmured, tears quietly rolling down his face. “I don’t deserve you, but I’ll love you every day for the rest of my life,” he whispered as you both lay down, facing one another.

You closed your eyes and smiled softly. He could tell you more another day, but for now this was enough.


End file.
